


Thief/Bet

by hedonisticnightmares



Series: #SpnStayAtHome [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Demigods, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedonisticnightmares/pseuds/hedonisticnightmares
Summary: It's destiel, but make it Ancient Greek.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: #SpnStayAtHome [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697713
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	Thief/Bet

The divinity that coursed through Castiel’s veins had always been of little consequence to him. His mother had been the dark-haired beauty of a noble family, favored, they said, by the slender-hipped god Hermes, and eventually gifted with Castiel for her piety. Since he had been a boy, he’d heard whispers of  _ prophecy _ and  _ hero _ , and when he stood before his mother, he could nearly always feel the weight of these expectations in the way her hands settled on his shoulders, delicate though they were. They seldom spoke to one another—she rarely spoke at all, except to whisper words of a prophecy she seemed to cling to, _ “He will make a great king and be worshipped as a god.” _ His care was left largely to his nurses and tutors, as after Castiel’s birth, the man she called her husband set about making much more use of her than he had before, and he walked perilously close to inciting the wrath of the gods with his hubris. No mortal seed could rival that of the gods’, no matter how often it spilled. Castiel had many siblings, and despite the godhead within him, he would have bet any of them were more likely to become a king than he was. 

Hermes was not an especially attentive father, as was the way with most of the gods. By the time he was a youth, Castiel could count on his hands the number of times that he had met him. And he would have needed both hands and most of his toes to enumerate the reasons he did not like him at all. As a start, he’d curse his divine blood, and the cruel twist that it had given him—bright blue eyes that unnerved anyone who wasn’t already too in awe of him to stay away. As if being half a god wasn’t punishment enough. He did not think of himself in the way the heroes and demigods who had come before him were thought of, and he did not think as his mother did, that he would become anything more significant than a proficient soldier. Perhaps, he could lead an army someday, and if he died in the midst of a great battle, then he’d save himself the trouble of finding a way to be immortalized. His death would be proof enough of his heroism. They’d erect a statue or paint him onto an amphora, or perhaps his mother would weave his story into a tapestry. He doubted whether it would be anything worth weaving, particularly if he never managed to become a king. He’d need to conquer a kingdom or marry a princess to do that, and he wasn’t particularly interested in doing either. As for godhood, well, it seemed that seldom worked out the way anyone planned, and he had no interest in becoming a constellation or lesser nymph. 

And so it was. For the first several years of his life, Castiel knew little of kindness not steeped in the desire for gain—either from what he would become or for the favor of his father—and he was schooled in music, strategy, and combat in equal measure. While he grew proficient in these skills, it could be noted that his father had been the swift and clever Hermes, and not the war hungry Ares or sweet voiced Apollo. His talents, much to the dismay of his instructors and tutors, lay primarily in sleights of hand. He liked making things disappear and reappear again in odd places, and he was particularly good at freeing himself when bound. These were not skills taught to him by them, but rather ones he seemed to stumble upon entirely on his own, and which he had chosen to perfect of his own accord. 

It wasn’t until after his eighth winter that anything of real note happened to him. Mostly, he kept out of the way, and practiced his tricks when he was bored, and though he tried to make friends of his siblings, both older and younger, his step-father did his best to discourage harmony between them. Eventually, Castiel gave up trying.

The region had been at war for some time, and when it finally ended, his mother’s husband brought in new slaves. All women, but for one. It wasn’t a common practice to take boys—they were usually killed rather than sold or taken, and when his mother’s husband was asked about his unusual mercy, he’d grunted and said the gods had willed it.

Had it not been for that boy in particular, Castiel was sure that the memory would have been lost to time. There was nothing unusual about slaves, and though it was rare, it wasn’t totally unheard of for younger boys to be spared and brought into a household. Sometimes if they were old enough and wealthy enough, they were sold to brothels. A disgrace for their former kingdoms. This is what he might have expected for the boy had he not looked so young, and had it not been the will of the gods that spared him. His step-father may have been coarse, but he wasn’t bold enough to defy the gods outright. If the boy had been spared by them, then he must have been special in some way. 

He was fairer than Castiel was used to seeing, fairer even than most of the women he had come with, and the healthy bronze of his skin made Castiel feel certain there was godhead within him. Despite this, and despite his obvious beauty, unlike Castiel, he seemed to fit with the others much more easily than Castiel had ever managed to fit in with even his own family. Aside from his exceeding beauty, the only things that set him apart from them were his youth—Castiel estimated he had six summers at most, while most of the women girls were at least fifteen—and the obstinate expression on his face. He looked as though he would have brought the roof down on all of them, if only he’d had the strength. It made Castiel curious about him. 

When at last the new slaves were bade to bathe and change to prepare for their welcome feast, Castiel finally caught the boy’s eye. It was unnerving, because unlike every other person who had set eyes on him since his birth, there was little change in his expression. It was like he had glanced upon a mildly interesting insect rather than a lonely boy with freakishly colored eyes and knobby knees. After a moment, his expression shuttered again, a return to perfect obstinance as he was led from the room by the hand of one of the women he had come with. 

A fortnight went by before Castiel found the time or, perhaps, the courage to speak to the boy. At eight, he had not yet grown bold enough to defy his shier nature, and he wasn’t certain that the boy wouldn’t strike him if he chose the wrong time to approach. He’d heard the boy called  _ Dekanos _ , but it seemed that most of the women called him by a diminutive—Dean—and Castiel felt it suited him more thoroughly. 

When he approached him after their evening meal, where he sat, almost sullen, next to a particularly lovely slave girl that Castiel had noticed one of his older brothers eyeing earlier on, he called him by name to get his attention. “I am Castiel. Would you like to see a trick?” he’d asked carefully, his shoulders squared. He had spent the entire day coming up with a ruse to speak to him, and he’d kept his dice bag at his hip all day just in case the opportunity presented itself before he was ready. He hoped they could play after he had shown him his trick. Dean glanced up at him, but didn’t respond beyond that. Again, Castiel felt himself a bit unnerved. 

The young woman leant down and said something to Dean in another language. She then straightened and spoke, stiltedly, to Castiel in his own tongue. “He does not understand,” she explained. 

“Oh,” was all Castiel could manage. He had forgotten that they were foreigners. Spoils of war. It was impressive that the girl knew his language at all. He might have said as much if he’d been able to think past the fact that he hadn’t considered there might be a communication barrier between them. 

She smiled nervously and said something else to Dean in their native language before urging him to his feet. “He will go,” she said as she bent her neck in deference. “He will play.”

Castiel, still uncertain of himself as Dean stood before him, finally took Dean’s hand, and nodded at the girl once before he marched off to the courtyard with him. Surprisingly, he wasn’t met with any resistance, and even when they made it to his favorite spot near the gnarled old olive tree that stood there, Dean made no effort to pull away from him. Castiel let go of him and squatted at the base of the tree to free his dice from his belt so he could show him his trick. There was a small part of him that felt excited at the prospect of a new companion, one his step-father and siblings hadn’t yet managed to taint against him, and who seemed unbothered by his eyes. 

He had scarcely pulled his dice from their bag to show Dean what he wanted to do with them, when the boy started to cry **.** Castiel was so startled by it, that he found himself frozen for several long moments as Dean wept silently before him, tears streaming down his freckled cheeks, his tiny chest heaving. The look on his face was something more like grief than the rage Castiel had seen on him when he’d arrived.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked, his own eyes wide. He collected his dice and tried to offer them, “Look, watch this.You’ll like it.” He held the dice out, and then twisted his wrist and blew on them to make them disappear. “They’re gone. I can do a different trick if you don’t like that one.” He’d forgotten the language barrier again, and when Dean seemed not to care or notice, and only cried harder, Castiel found himself at a profound loss. There was no one around for him to ask for help, and no slaves around that could translate for him. He pulled his hands through his hair, as he was wont to do when met with a particularly difficult puzzle, and at last settled on a course of action. He fixed Dean with a hard look. His face was splotchy and red, and he had pulled his arms around himself in a failed attempt to keep it all in. Castiel’s own mother had told him on more than one occasion that tears were unbecoming, and he wondered if Dean’s mother had ever said the same. He wondered what had happened to his mother. Without another thought about it, Castiel wrapped his spindly arms around the boy and held him as tightly as he could manage without hurting him. He had learned early that his form belied his strength, and he had to be careful when he was physical with mortals. He didn’t know what more he could do, and so he stroked his hair, and told him over and over that things were going to be okay, and that he would protect him if he was very frightened. His father was a god and nothing would dare cross him if he willed it. They could be companions if he liked. He would ask about it in the morning. His dice had found their way back to his hip bag, but he didn’t bother pulling them out to show; it didn’t seem like it would make much difference. 

Dean continued to cry, but his breath hitched, and eventually, he wrapped his arms loosely around Castiel’s waist, his face buried in Castiel’s shoulder. When it began to grow dark, and the time came for them to ready for bed, Castiel insisted to his nurse that he be allowed to keep Dean until he had a chance to speak with his parents. He carefully helped him wash and curled up with him in his own bed. 

Once it was agreed that Castiel would be allowed to keep him for good, they became nearly inseparable. Castiel went about his usual business—primarily meals and lessons—and Dean followed close behind him. Castiel often spoke to Dean, pointed things out to him and told him what they were called in his language in hopes that Dean would feel inclined to do the same. He didn’t. It wasn’t that he minded that Dean didn’t speak, but that he wasn’t certain that what he said to him was understood. Even if Dean never spoke, Castiel thought that if he could understand him, they would both feel less lonely. He often tried his new tricks on him, and gauged their success on whether or not they elicited a smile from him. There weren’t many others he could try them on without garnering looks of suspicion, but with Dean it was only failure or success, and he liked the simplicity of it. 

Although Castiel enjoyed even Dean’s silent company, his older brother had written him off as dumb, and advised Castiel to be rid of him. Castiel blackened his eye for it, and was sent away to his room for most of the day, seperated from Dean as a result. Dean had stared blankly after him as one of the women from his mother’s retinue came and took him by the hand. 

As it happened, Hermes chose to visit him on that particular day, slipping in through his window in a gust of unnatural wind, and leaning casually against it with his arms over his chest and grace in every limb. Even then, Castiel wasn’t quite certain how he had come from such stock. He looked almost frightfully young, with a permanently fixed smirk on his lips, like he was constantly in on a good joke. He glowed with the power of Olympus. If not for his bright eyes and wild curls, Castiel doubted he’d have found any true resemblance between them at all. Though, there wasn’t much to be said for that—the progeny of the gods could take all sorts of forms, and Castiel had heard tales of monstrously ugly children locked away not only for their hideousness, but fear of their power. He supposed he should count himself lucky to be neither hideously ugly nor particularly powerful. 

“And what, my son, have you to tell me of your latest adventures? Is your mother well? Do not bore me. Your grandfather beckons, and I would like to give an acceptable reason for being late to meet the king of the gods. A good story, I think, would suffice.” 

Castiel wasn’t certain of what adventures he was meant to have that a god wouldn’t find boring, but he spoke in his usual careful way, and told his father of Dean, and the nasty thing that his brother had said about him. Yes, his mother was well enough, but her husband could still be boorish, particularly at meals. And then he showed him the trick he had been practicing on Dean earlier that week.

Hermes had laughed, a bright, tinny sound, like rain against a shield, and with a wave of his hand produced the gift of a new lyre and the suggestion that Castiel learn the boy’s language from someone else if he wanted to communicate with him so badly. Presently, he had the favor of the gods, and so long as he didn’t disgrace himself, it should be easy enough to keep it. And then, as swiftly as he had come, he was gone. 

It was, perhaps, the only advice he could ever remember appreciating hearing from him. Hermes was known for his cunning, and while his advice could be sound, it usually came with some measure of biting wit that Castiel never learned to appreciate. 

And so it went. Castiel studied as he always did during the day, and at night, once Dean had fallen soundly asleep, would sneak into the slave quarters and learn Dean’s native tongue from the girl that had originally translated for them. In return, he promised her that he would prevent his brother from ravishing her, and explained that though he was just a boy, his father was Hermes, son of Zeus, and she had his protection. Castiel seldom invoked his bloodline, but he couldn’t risk missing the opportunity to learn to communicate in a way that Dean could understand. 

There was clear surprise on Dean’s face when, several weeks later, he spoke his first complete sentence to him, and it filled him with a warm pride he’d never felt when he practiced drills or was praised for his speed and perfection. That feeling alone was enough to keep him learning, and true to his word, he kept a careful eye on his brother, and cunningly thwarted any advance he made in the general direction of the girl. 

Over a month passed before Dean finally spoke back. “It matches your eyes,” he’d said as Castiel was being draped in a new chiton. 

The shock of it nearly bowled him over, and the joy he felt at the fact that Dean had spoken to him of his own accord was greater than he’d had words for. He’d scrambled from the stool he had been standing on and embraced him. 

It was then that their friendship began to deepen. At first, they spoke only at night, after they were left alone in Castiel’s room, in hushed tones, nose to nose in his bed. Dean explained that he’d been traded, his mother’s and brother’s lives for his own, that he had been a prince, but could never be again now that Castiel’s household owned him. His father had been forced to denounce him before they beheaded him. He didn’t miss being a prince, he said, but he missed his brother and fair-haired mother. 

When Castiel asked him if there was divinity in him too Dean had shaken his head. His mother came from another continent, he said, and so she had been fair. His father’s people had not accepted her, and so he imagined she fled with his brother back to where she came from. He wasn’t exactly sure where that was, but it was of little consequence now. 

Castiel had felt something like sadness at this. He hadn’t realized that he’d solidified such a fiction in his head about Dean in the time that he’d been silent. He supposed he had used it to form an artificial bond between them—two outcast boys with the burden of godhead on their shoulders. He reasoned to himself that the true bond they had forged when Dean began speaking to him was better than his fairy-tale one anyway. They could belong to each other now, and with or without their families, they would no longer feel alone in the world. 

The years wore on, and the two of them grew closer, always in each other’s orbit. As a slave, and despite being treated as an equal in nearly every other way, Dean was not permitted to learn combat. This was the most significant amount of time they spent apart, and while Castiel knew he could function just as well as he ever had on his own, the hours he spent training were his least favorite of the day. The attempts he made  _ not  _ to think of his companion during these times only aided him though, as he tended to train harder as a means of pushing how he missed him from his mind. 

In his absence, Dean made himself useful in other ways, and became relatively skillful in the way of wood and metalworks. If they could find the time to sneak off together, Castiel taught him some of what he knew so he could defend himself should he ever need it, and in exchange, Dean taught him how to bring forth life from a block of wood. He was clever at carving animals and creatures of all kinds, and Castiel was proud that he had such talent with his hands. At night, whatever the day might bring, they would rejoin, like two drops of water, always nose to nose. They could tell jokes they’d heard or stories, or recount the things that happened to them in the time they had been apart during the day, and Castiel still performed clever magic tricks for Dean’s entertainment. Occasionally, he allowed him to tie him up and time his escape, as Dean got no end of joy in inventing complicated knots for him to navigate. Dean had also gotten quite good at forming his hands into shadow shapes on the wall to supplement the stories he sometimes told before they climbed into bed. And when they had exhausted themselves for the night, Dean liked to draw his finger down the length of Castiel’s nose and press a quick, silly, little kiss to the tip of it before they’d fall asleep. Without realizing it, Castiel’s lonely soul found peace in the quiet of those evenings, and he often forgot that one day he was expected to immortalize himself with a heroic deed, become a king and a god. It was an easy thing to forget as a child of Hermes anyway; he seldom made time to see him.

While Castiel found that, more often than not, his mind was too preoccupied with other things to dwell on it very much, it had not escaped his notice that, though they weren’t yet fully grown, Dean’s body, as well as his own, had changed quite a bit over the years. Dean still retained his glowing youth that so reminded Castiel of the way his father’s Olympian glow, and he was never wholly convinced that Dean didn’t have a divine drop of blood in his veins. When he smiled, Castiel was certain he rivaled Apollo, and his freckles were like constellations upon his skin. He was, even by godly standards, beautiful. It made Castiel protective of him, and he often had to push the feeling aside to keep from being a nuisance. 

Of himself, he could see how he had grown into his body and taken on the easy, lithe proportions of his father. His hair had only grown more unruly, and it framed his face and eyes in a way that, while still unnerving for most everyone apart from Dean, made clear that divinity flowed through him. All of this might have escaped his notice longer if not for the attentions that others showed them. Perhaps it was the way Dean’s shoulders had broadened and his waist had narrowed. Perhaps it was the way he began to shed his baby fat, which simply added to the delicate cut of his features, but his beauty had not escaped the notice of others, both inside and outside of their household. When they ate dinner or took a stroll in the square or went to the baths, he could feel the appreciative stares of men and women who made no effort to hide that they wanted him. It made Castiel uncomfortable, but Dean had also retained the seamless quality Castiel had noted in him when he first set eyes on him. He never looked uncomfortable or out of place, and since he now spoke easily in both his native tongue and Castiel’s, he had no trouble with the diplomacy of the thing. Where Castiel would simply have brushed past someone, Dean gave them the illusion of mutual interest, even when he had none.

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble that way,” Castiel told him once on a trip home from the baths.

Dean had clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and ruffled his curls with the other, “Not while I’ve you to protect me,” he grinned. “Anyway, they wouldn’t dare. I belong to you.”

Castiel redoubled his efforts to teach Dean basic combat after that.  
  


It was in the spring of his 17th year that many things changed for Castiel very quickly. A tournament was being hosted, and he was expected to participate. Generally, he stayed away from any and all games of the type, but he was nearly a man by then, and expectations around his godhead were high. He had not yet shown any indication of becoming a king as his mother hoped, and he had shown little interest in anything that wasn’t his studies or spending time with Dean. In a year, he would be expected to join the military if he wasn’t already engaged in some probably life-threatening quest by that time, and at the least, he would be expected to garner glory for himself and his family there. It was not something he cared to think about overmuch, but he was aware of the expectations upon him, as he had been from boyhood, and he did not argue the point when his step-father demanded he participate to uphold the honor of their house. 

He was to compete in the javelin throw and the foot races. Confident about both, when the day came, he felt no anxiety about competing. He simply would rather he hadn’t had to. He knew he needed to complete each competition and refrain from making a fool of himself while he was at it, so that was his plan. 

“I have a gift for you,” Dean said as he massaged olive oil into Castiel’s limbs. They were cutting it close, as they were the only ones still preparing, but the sun was bright, and Castiel felt unhurried, particularly in Dean’s company. Dean could not compete, but being of a noble family, Castiel was allowed to have his help in preparations. 

“Hmm?” Castiel titled his head to one side as Dean ran his hands along his shoulders from behind him. He’d already done it once, but Castiel didn’t feel the need to point it out. Dean seemed to be in a good mood and he didn’t want to spoil it. 

“I’ll give it to you once you win your events,” he told him and stood on his toes to press a quick kiss to the side of his neck. It was chaste, as all his kisses were. Dean had grown more affectionate over the years, and while Castiel had no problem with this, he tended to reserve his own affection for times when they were alone together. The only time Dean tended to hold himself back was when they were in the presence of Castiel’s parents or siblings. Despite being allowed to serve as his companion, they still very much saw Dean as a slave, and though Castiel never would have let them touch him, Dean had enough self-preservation to keep his head down in their company. 

Castiel turned to face him and took him by the elbows, “And if I don’t win? Will you withhold your gift?” They were of a height these days, but Dean was still just a little shorter. 

He grinned up at him, “I don’t think you should risk it.” 

Castiel laughed and leaned in to press a quick kiss against his forehead, “Then don’t take your eyes from me. I’ll win both laurels for you.” He went to join the other men then and took his place among them. 

The foot races were easy. Castiel was a son of Hermes, after all, and there was no god or mortal more sure-footed or swift. He could run laps around the other men if he so chose, but he kept a respectable pace, and hardly had to exert himself to come out the winner. The javelin took a bit more effort from him, strategy, but he had no intention of letting Dean down, and he took that event as well, much to the disappointment of one of his younger brothers, who had practiced tirelessly to do well. Had it not been for Castiel, he would have been the winner. Had it not been for Dean, Castiel probably would have let him. 

Once he had scraped the oil from his body and bathed, he returned to his room, where Dean was waiting for him, a bowl of figs in his lap. Castiel crossed the room and placed one of the laurels he had been awarded for his victories on Dean’s head. “Dessert before dinner, is this to be my gift?” he asked, half amused. 

“You could have beaten them more thoroughly,” Dean said lightly, “You never hold back when you’re racing me. But no, I just thought you might like to share these now. I picked all the best ones.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes, fondly, “That sounds like a ruse for you to have them early, and less like consideration for me.” Dean had a bit of a fondness for sweets, though he didn’t always like to admit it. “And your ego isn’t so delicate as theirs,” Castiel told him. “I never compete. I don’t relish in it. It was bad enough to beat them as I did. Even expected, it leaves a bitter taste in their mouths. I haven’t the charm or beauty of the great Achilles. Nor do I command the same respect as Heracles once did. No one wishes to be bested by me.”

Dean moved the bowl from his lap and took Castiel’s hand as he stood before him. “I think you must be many times lovelier than Achilles. Your eyes alone would put him to shame,” he ran the tip of his finger down the length of Castiel’s nose in the way he usually reserved for the moments before they both fell asleep. “And Heracles was not half so clever as you.” 

Castiel stared back at him, “My eyes make everyone but you uncomfortable. And cunning is for tricksters and thieves. It sets them all on edge. They would sooner have you as a winner than me.”

Dean dropped his gaze and pressed his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder as he spoke, “I would have you best me,” he said softly, his other hand settling at Castiel’s neck. “As many times as you were willing. I would make you my god.” 

Castiel was struck speechless, and his face grew hot at those words. They had always been open with one another, but Dean had never spoken to him like this before. He knew what people assumed about them, had heard the whispers when Castiel had shown no interest in the women around him, and still dallied when it came to making a name for himself, but they meant nothing. Without proof of anything, and there was none, there was nothing that could be done. It would have probably been more shocking to everyone had they known for certain that they were not lovers, close as they were. Though, it was just as well that no one ever really questioned it, as lying with Dean in such a way would have certainly meant the lash for him. It was one of the many things Castiel never dwelt on, and could not have bore the thought for long if he did. He could scarcely imagine Dean coming to harm because of something he had done.They knew they loved one another. The  _ type _ of love made little difference between them. 

After a moment of what must have been quiet deliberation, Dean tilted his face up and pressed his lips to Castiel’s. His mouth was soft and full, inviting, and Castiel couldn’t help kissing him right back, his hand on Dean’s cheek. Though their mouths were clumsy, neither of them seemed to want to part any sooner than they had to. 

“Was  _ that _ my gift?” Castiel asked, a smile on his lips, when at last he forced himself away so that they could both breathe properly again. He kept his forehead pressed against Dean’s.

Dean laughed breathlessly and shook his head, “I didn’t know I was going to do that. Not until I did. Here,” he had yet to let go of Castiel’s hand, and he pulled him along to the window where he pushed aside the drape and produced a dark, gleaming spear. “I know you don’t care for these things, but I wanted to make something for you. Something useful.”

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel told him as his fingers slid along the polished wood of the shaft. “When did you have time to craft something like this?” He lifted it in his hand, tested its heft. It felt well-balanced, like it could be an extension of his own arm. Dean had done well. 

“You spend more time than you think at your lessons. And all I can do is think of you when you’re gone, so I made myself productive.” He wound his arms about Castiel’s waist, “There were many failed attempts, but I was determined. What I made needed to be worthy of a god. Worthy of you. If, in a year, you will have to become a soldier, I won’t be allowed to go with you. I know this, though you refuse to think of it. Though, I would defy the gods if it would not shame you. But if I can’t be near, I want to still be of some use to you.” 

Castiel set the spear back against the wall and wrapped his arms around Dean again. It was something he actually had thought of; he simply didn’t like the thought. He would be of age in the winter, and then he would be expected to join the military for a number of years, something Dean, being a foriegn-born slave, would never be allowed to do. It had been on his mind, but he hadn’t quite worked out a way around it, and so he’d had to sit with the thought that eventually they would be separated, probably for a long time. If that happened, he didn’t know when he’d see Dean again. 

“I will not give you up so easily,” Castiel told him. He drew back, and then, just so he could see him smile, he pulled a fig from the space behind Dean’s ear. 

It was a simple trick, but it worked. Dean shoved him playfully, then caught him by the wrist and took a bite of the fruit while Castiel still held it between his fingers. Juice rolled down his wrist, and in a move that was far more seductive than Castiel had ever seen from him, Dean licked it clean. It made Castiel’s heart stutter in his chest. He flushed and then put the rest of the fruit into his own mouth, which Dean chased with another kiss. 

They spent the rest of the night like that, joking and kissing, nearly missing their evening meal altogether because they were blind, but for each other. It occurred to Castiel that it had always been like this, simply more restrained. It felt so natural to be able to kiss Dean’s mouth rather than just his forehead or cheek. When they went down to eat, he wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle shift between them. Dutifully, Dean refrained from kissing or touching him unnecessarily, but they sat, pressed thigh to thigh the entire night, and while Dean spoke to the others in his usual animated style, Castiel sat quietly and watched him. 

He would figure it out. There was still a little time before he would be forced to become a soldier, and he planned to use it to devise a way to keep Dean with him. While he might have been permitted to bring a slave of his own to war, he would not go directly to battle, and Dean technically still belonged to his step-father’s house. If he wished it, he could have sold Dean many times over by now. He imagined that either his mother’s quiet devotion or fear of angering the gods were the only things that held such an impulse at bay. He was not the type of man who would have ordinarily appreciated having the son of a man he had defeated keep company in his home. 

They kissed endlessly. Or it felt endless to Castiel. He would have liked for it to have been endless. He hadn’t known before that he had been missing anything. Their friendly affections had always seemed more than enough for him, but now that his eyes had been opened to what it was like to feel Dean’s mouth against his, he wondered how many other things in life he had failed to take notice of. How he had managed to live without it. When they climbed into bed that night, rather than kissing the tip of his nose, as was Dean’s usual way once he had pulled his finger down it’s bridge, he pressed their mouths together for the umpteenth time that night. They stared into one another’s eyes as they had always done, barely contained smiles on their faces as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

If Castiel had known then that it was to be their last night together, he would have never closed his eyes. 

Dean was wrapped in his arms, their bodies sticky with the night’s heat, when Castiel felt the unmistakable updraft that always brought his father to him. When he opened his eyes, Hermes was leaning against the window, the spear Dean had crafted for Castiel between his hands. 

“Greetings,” he said, amusement painted over his changeless features. 

Dean shifted in Castiel’s arms, and he pulled him a little closer, the desire to protect him overriding any urge he might have had to give Hermes the respect any other god might have demanded. He did not get to his feet, but stared at him as he lay there on his side behind Dean. 

“It would seem that you’ve grown quite a bit since last we met. Discovered earthly pleasures,” he cocked a brow in Dean’s direction. “You did well at the games today, did he reward you properly for your efforts?”

Castiel felt the heat rise in his face, “We haven’t… Why are you here? You never visit me like this. When I’m not alone.”

He set the spear aside and crossed his arms over his chest, “Yes, well, this couldn’t wait, son.” He lifted his brows, “I’ve come to take you away. You’re needed elsewhere.” 

Castiel’s brows drew together, “Needed? For what purpose?” He had been afraid of waking Dean, but he sat up now, a spike of panic striking through him. 

Hermes managed to look exasperated, “For whatever purpose I give you, boy. You have a destiny, as all mortals do, and it’s time to play your part. Particularly if you want not to remain devoid of worth for the rest of your days. You’ve dawdled here long enough. If you stay any longer, your opportunity will pass, and you will be forgotten.”

“Cas…” Dean shifted again, but this time opened his eyes, a sleepy smile on his face for a brief moment before he realized that something wasn’t right. He sat up too, his eyes following Castiel’s gaze to Hermes. 

It seemed to hit him in increments. First, the realization that they weren’t alone. Castiel was certain that if he hadn’t still been holding him, that Dean would have found his way to the other side of the room. Then the realization that Hermes was not mortal, his wild eyes and unearthly glow settling upon him. And finally, the realization of who that god must be. Dean began to tremble, but to his credit, he did not take his eyes from him, and only bowed his head slightly in respect. 

It made Castiel all the more proud to have him at his side.

“You  _ are _ something,” Hermes said matter-of-factly. “Well, one can’t accuse you of lacking in taste,” he told Castiel. 

Castiel’s frown deepened, and he tightened his grip on Dean. “Speak, father. Tell me what it is you wish me to do.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve not come to take him. Though I’d hide him from the others if I were you. Aphrodite and Zeus can be insatiable when it comes to the pretty ones. I prefer them clever or devout, but we all have our weaknesses. I’ve come for you. Now, get your things, and stop wasting my time. A thief is needed. You are that thief. Come.” 

“What?” This from Dean. “You can’t just take him! That’s not… he’s no thief. He’s never stolen a thing since I’ve known him.”

“ _ Dean, _ ” Castiel warned. He did not trust his father for an instant, and he wanted to protect him from whatever wrath he might rain upon him if the inclination struck. 

“And do you intend to stop me, mortal? Do you think you could bend the will of a god? An Olympian? Stand between one and their son? He is a thief if that is what I choose to call him. Do you know anyone else quite so clever at making things disappear from one place and reappear in another? It seems he has already stolen your wits, else you would mind your tongue.”

Dean squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw, “It has been done. I would defy you for him.” 

Castiel saw the way his father’s eyes lit up, the wrath of a god behind them, and he leapt to his feet in front of Dean before he had the chance to do anything Castiel couldn’t forgive him for. “Tell me, father. What is it you wish me to do?” He spoke carefully, “I was… under the impression… that is my mother always said it was foretold that I would make a great king someday. That I might be worshipped as a god. I’m not certain how becoming a thief would aid that end.” 

Hermes looked amused again, though the wrath hadn’t quite died from his eyes. He stood up straight and walked slowly toward Castiel. It made him feel more naked than he already was, but he refused to allow him anywhere near Dean, and he stood his ground before him. 

“I don’t believe you were always this obstinate. It must be a side-effect of your choice of companion. Very well. You will make a great king, as the prophecy foretold, provided you are on a very specific ship come sunrise. It will become clearer once you begin, as is the way with the Fates. If you are not on this ship, then you will die with no one to remember you and no glory to your name. Rather unacceptable for a son of Hermes, I think. Make your choice. Do you intend to languish here for the rest of your days? Do you think your mother would continue to tolerate your presence here if I let her know that you chose to thwart the Fates for this one?” 

Castiel stared at his father, his words as heavy as his mother’s hands had once been on his shoulders. He did not want this. He was not ready. 

“I’ll go with you,” Dean said suddenly, and he got to his feet behind Castiel. 

Castiel turned to face him and took Dean’s face between his hands. He knew what his father meant to say before the words ever left his mouth. 

“You most certainly will not. He must make his journey alone. You would only be in his way, and I would not make a thief of my son twice. You belong to this house, do you not?”

“Father,” Castiel said sharply, “I ask that you give me an hour. I’ll… I’ll join you then.” His heart was already cracked in two, and he did not fear speaking to him the way he did. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Dean, who now looked stricken, as though a frightened horse was barreling at him, and he had no idea how to move from its path. There wasn’t time to devise a new plan; he hadn’t even managed one for when he would have been forced to leave in the next year. He had to do as he was bid. 

Hermes sighed dramatically, “Very well.” There was an unnatural gust of wind, and then he was gone.

“You can’t go,” Dean said fiercely, “Not when we’ve only just… take me with you, at least. It’s not the military. There are no laws.”

Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead, “I will come back for you,” he told him. “Perhaps… perhaps it will not be such a long time that I’m gone. Hermes says I will make a great king. When I am such, you’ll want for nothing. I swear it.” 

“I want only you,” he said, his voice breaking. “Prophecies… gods… none of it matters. They make toys of men and laugh when they break. I would make you my god,” he said again, his voice sincere and desperate. “I would worship at your altar every night and every morning. I would make a temple of my body for you, and you could rest between my thighs. I would make a sacrifice of my mouth for you. I would belong to you alone. Just, please, don’t go. Or if you must, don’t leave me here.” He turned his face and kissed Castiel’s wrist in such a way that said he knew that his words would fall short of their mark. 

“I will come back to you,” Castiel told him again. He could hardly stand to say it, and it took all there was within him to withstand such words. He had never faced a more formidable task. Nothing would ever be more difficult for him than denying Dean. “But I cannot defy my father in this. He will have his way, even if he pretends to give me a choice. And I would not risk your safety to have you at my side. Even if I could protect you, if my step-father chose, he could have you lashed until you died for leaving his house. I will not risk that. I could not bear it. Here, you will be safe.”

Dean stepped away from him, “Then go. Be his thief. Find your glory. But do not expect me to wait for you forever.” His old obsitinance had returned, and for all the heartbreak on his face, there was a determined set to his shoulders. 

Castiel stared at him. He wanted to take him in his arms, to go back to the kissing of earlier, to eventually spend nights with him where they learned to find pleasure in each other’s bodies. If he was simply going to the military, he imagined Dean would have waited. There was no guarantee that he would return, but he would not be far, and he might visit. If there was no war, he would not have to fight. With the gods, there was no way to determine what the Fates held in store. Men had died, been transformed, taken captive, and tortured all at the whim of gods of every shape and size. He could not fault Dean for how he felt in this. 

“I will come for you,” he said hoarsely. “If you have believed nothing else of me in all these years, please believe that.” Quickly, and before he could weaken and beg for all that Dean had just promised him, he dressed, packed a few things, and then took the spear Dean had made for him with him when he went. 

“He is quite beautiful,” Hermes said when, at last, Castiel joined him. “I cannot blame you for wanting to fall to him. Even Zeus would find him tempting. It happens so rarely, but I suppose even mortals can occasionally produce exquisite beauty, just as gods can produce monsters.”

Castiel turned on him, and he knew by the nearly imperceptible shift in his father’s features that he must have looked almost as fierce as any true-born god, “Speak not of him to me again, father. If you do, I will abandon you and your quest. I will seek the help of any god who will have me, and I will defy you for the rest of my days.”

“Very well. Come. You are to steal a trident, and to do so, you must find Bythos and Aphros. ” 

Had Castiel any other real choice, he would not have agreed to his father’s quest. He had never cared to become a god or a king, and his only solace in the idea was that when he completed his tasks, he would be able to return as a king great enough to fasten Dean to his side, and never let him go again. His mother would be pleased, his place in history assured, and he would have the only thing he had ever really desired for himself. Dean would be safe from anyone or anything that dared look his way. It seemed the only option. 

Stealing from Posiedon was an almost impossible feat; one he might never have undertaken otherwise. But at night, as he sailed on an unfamiliar ship to an unfamiliar stretch of the world, he’d close his eyes and find Dean smiling behind them, and he would steel his resolve. His father, as usual, flitted in and out, sometimes leaving him for weeks at a time before he returned. Half the time he had nothing useful to say, and when he did, it was usually riddled with unclear, cryptic messages, and Castiel often ignored him. 

In the end, he did manage to steal the trident. He had nearly been caught, and if not for Dean’s spear, Posiedon might have killed him right there. Even Castiel had been shocked that his mortal weapon had slowed him down. Of course, as all things with gods, it did not come without consequence, and Castiel eventually found himself imprisoned on a remote island, under guard of a many eyed monster, where he had to work very hard, and employ his best tricks in order to escape. Even once he had, he was so far from home that getting back felt entirely out of reach. 

When, at last, his father decided to grace him with his presence again, Castiel struck him. It was, perhaps, the least intelligent thing he could have done, as if he was so inclined, Hermes could have vanquished him on the spot, or shattered every bone in his hand. But neither of those things happened, and he simply turned into the force of the blow, and crossed his arms over his chest as Castiel recovered himself. 

“I would not try that again,” he said evenly. 

“You have lied,” Castiel said. “You have taken me from all that I loved, for what?” He spread his arms wide and gestured to the empty beach around him. His own body was littered with cuts and scrapes, and he was filthy from head to toe. It had been three years since he’d left home, since he’d left Dean, and yet, he had nothing to show for it. His despair, had it not been for his absolute fury, would have been enough to drown him. “I see no kingdom. I know not what became of the trident. Posiedon must have it back by now. I have been imprisoned, and without your help, I have stumbled here, to this desolate place, so far from home, and with nothing to show for my efforts.”

“You’ve grown dramatic in my absence,” Hermes drawled. “Perhaps we should find a place for you on the stage. You did as you were meant to do. And you have helped make a great a king with your efforts.”

Castiel did not move, his entire being going still at his father’s words. 

Of course. 

Of course. Prophecies were never so straightforward. He felt foolish, and the despair, which his fury had held at bay, was beginning to wash over him. 

“Who?” he rasped. “Tell me who it is that I betrayed my own happiness for.” 

“The stage,” Hermes said again to make his point. “If you must know, the boy is called Samuel. He will take more than his share of the world in coming years, but he needed the trident in order to begin. He had to trade it back to Posiedon in order to take his army across the sea. He has gained Athena’s favor, and the plan was hers.” 

Castiel did not speak. Could not speak for his grief. He did not expect to find Dean waiting for him when he returned, if he ever returned. Years had passed already, and he had already promised not to wait. 

“He is quite grateful for the help,” Hermes continued. “He would like to meet you. Perhaps, you could ask a favor of him. Perhaps, he could aid you in retrieving your…  _ happiness _ .” 

“He will not be there when I return, and I cannot face him as I am.” 

“Suit yourself. But you are right, he will not be there when you return. He was sold to a brothel soon after you left.” 

Castiel hit his knees. He could hardly bear the thought of Dean in such a place, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from from vomiting the limited contents of his stomach into the sand. “Why did you not tell me?” he managed. 

“Because you would have gone back for him. And because you told me not to speak of him.” 

Castiel could hear the taunt in Hermes’ voice, and he felt such rage bubble within him, that he almost could not contain it. 

“I would not,” Hermes said again in warning, as if he could read Castiel’s thoughts. He walked a slow circle around Castiel, who felt as though his skin would split if he didn’t do something to rid himself of his fury. 

“Despite your constant ingratitude at all things, Castiel, I am not so poor a father as to let you suffer endlessly. Perhaps what I say next will allow you to feel gratitude toward me at last.” He crouched so that they were at eye level, and his youthful face held such amusement, that Castiel knew with certainty that the words Dean had spoken to him about the gods had been correct. They made toys out of men. 

“Because of his great beauty, I thought it a waste for him to be passed around in such a filthy place, and so I went to him and granted him a mercy.” 

Castiel’s eyes widened, dread and terror rushing up inside of him.

“Peace, my son. He lives. I helped him to a temple of Apollo, where he serves him. He is, after all, patron of fugitives and refugees. He cannot be touched so long as he stays under his protection.” Hermes pointed to the horizon, “He is there, the young King Samuel just North of that. Do what you will with that information.” 

Eventually, Castiel came upon a small village, and from there, he was able to gather himself and find passage to the temple his father had pointed him to. He slept little and ate less, and his apprehension was so great that he often found himself terrified at the prospect of meeting Dean again. And so he spent his nights devising ways that an end would be put to all of this. If Dean left the temple, he would still not be free, as at any point, his old masters could come to claim him. So they would need to go North, to the king that would owe Castiel a favor, for having aided in his ascension. There, perhaps, he could ask for asylum, and they could live peacefully together. That was if Dean would have him. If the god Apollo would give him up. He clenched his teeth and tried not to think of the many ways in which Apollo might entice him to stay. He’d stolen a trident, and outsmarted a beast, but he was no match for a god. Particularly not one as revered for his charm and beauty as Apollo. He had nothing to give now—Hermes had informed him that his mother had taken ill and died, which was what prompted the sale of Dean to begin with—and he knew that his step-father would have nothing to do with him if he returned. 

He made his way by performing tricks as entertainment, or by winning bets with men who thought less of him than they did themselves, and still it took nearly a year for him to reach the temple. When, at last, he did, it’s shining beauty made him uncertain as to whether or not he would be allowed to enter at all when he approached. He had taken care to wash himself and shave before he arrived, but he felt small before it, and ashamed that he had been so long away from Dean. 

He approached, and his breath caught in his chest as he set eyes on the lithe form stretched along the top of the steps there. He was bathed in golden light from the sun, and his eyes were closed; he looked as though he could have been Apollo himself, but Castiel knew better. He had grown more beautiful in his absence, though it was clear he had filled out quite a bit, the muscle in his thigh where his chiton had ridden up, standing out powerfully beneath his golden skin. 

Castiel ached at the very sight of him, and he nearly turned around and left. He didn’t deserve him. He was meant for the gods, and Castiel felt he had no right to want him as he did in that moment. 

He approached, and stood over him so that he blocked the sun. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he reached for the dagger that had been laying at his hip, as he sat bolt upright. 

Castiel held up his hands to show that he meant him no harm, took a step back, and after what felt like an eternity, Dean lowered his weapon.

“Cas?” he said, and his voice was uncertain, as though he thought he was a spectre. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. He had turned many first words over in his head since he’d left that island, but none seemed so right as those. “I do not… I cannot expect your forgiveness after being gone for so long, but I beg you to allow me to try to repent.” He got to his knees before him and pressed his forehead to the step. “I promised I would come for you, and so I have. But know that I would have come sooner had I been able.” 

“I was sold,” he said. “Hermes led me here when I ran from that place. I begged him to take me to you. He refused me.”

Castiel stayed silent. There was nothing he could say. He knew what his father had done. 

“Apollo has treated me well. Has protected me here. He wishes to make me immortal. To keep me for himself. So long as I shelter here, I belong to him, so it would not be so different to belong to him for eternity. He is not cruel, and I make him laugh.” 

Castiel felt himself tense. This is what he feared he would find. If Apollo had taken him for a lover—and why wouldn’t he—then what reason would Dean have to leave? To be favored by Apollo was the highest of honors. 

“What do you wish?” Castiel asked, his eyes shut. He could leave only if he heard Dean tell him to do so. He would not be able to go on otherwise. He would most likely not be able to go on once he did, but at least this way, there would be an end to it. His hope would finally be extinguished.

Castiel felt Dean shift closer, opened his eyes as Dean knelt before him and lifted his chin in his hand. They were as close as breath, and Dean stared into his eyes for a long time before he spoke again. “I would,” he said carefully, “Make a thief of you.” He ran his finger down the length of Castiel’s nose, and hesitantly leaned in and pressed a kiss against his mouth. 

Castiel felt something break apart inside his chest, and seized Dean’s face between his hands. He was sure Apollo could see them, wherever he was, and he hoped he did. He hoped he came and tried to stop them. Castiel was prepared to tear him in two. 

“I would steal you from Hades himself,” he whispered. 

“Then do it,” Dean said, already moving to kiss him again. “Steal me away, and I will go wherever you bid me, so long as it’s with you. Do not ask me to part from you again.”

Castiel eventually got to his feet, his arms wrapped firmly around Dean’s waist. Dean was taller than him now, and it made him ache for the years they’d lost together. “I- I am not a king,” he admitted. “The prophecy was… not as my mother thought.”

“Then I will make you a god. My god,” Dean said, and followed it up with a heated kiss, his fingers tangled in Castiel’s hair. He pulled his teeth along the skin of Castiel’s neck, “Take me from here, and I will show you many times over how it feels to be a god of mine.”

Castiel felt himself grow weak at Dean’s touch, and he wondered, not for the first time, if there wasn’t something truly divine within him. No man should ever hold such sway over another without some divine agency.

Castiel pressed his fingertips against the space over Dean’s heart, “I will. But we must visit the man who I helped make a king. My father tells me he is North of here, and because of my thievery, he sits where he does, and his kingdom will grow. He owes me a favor, and I will ask him to grant us asylum so that we may never be parted again.” 

Dean took the hand Castiel had pressed against his chest and interlaced their fingers, “I will not risk losing you a second time. If that is where we must go, then we will do it, but not before I have you. I have thought of nothing else since that night your father took you from me, and I will do nothing else until I do.”

Castiel felt himself go red, but the look in Dean’s eyes was determined, “I don’t believe Apollo would-”

“My only god is you,” Dean whispered, his free hand sliding beneath Castiel’s chiton as he leaned in for another kiss. “Apollo will understand. These are my terms if you are to be deified.” He pressed a kiss below Castiel’s ear, “Let me worship at your altar.” He shifted his hand beneath Castiel’s chiton, his intentions unsubtle, “Make my body your temple, and  _ live _ between my thighs.” His fist tightened in Castiel’s hair, and there wasn’t even space for breath between them now, “My mouth, my heart, my soul, I’ll sacrifice them all, and they’ll belong to you.” He pressed their mouths together again, a promise sealed. 

Castiel felt himself grow dizzy with Dean’s words, with the idea of being made his every night for the rest of his life. And as he pressed himself against him, desperate to make his home in Dean’s body, the words of prophecy flitted across his mind.

_ He will make a great king and be worshipped as a god. _

**Author's Note:**

> So, this really, really got out of hand—like I thought last week was bad, but obviously it can get worse—and since it was getting so long, and I had a limited amount of time to finish, I decided to stop here. It's over twice as long as last week's! In theory, Cas and Dean would visit Sam, and we’d discover that Sam is actually Dean’s brother that was sent away with their mother when Castiel’s step-daddy came and killed their dad. And then some cool stuff would come to light about the whole situation, gods and prophecies, ect. and there would be a happily ever after, and a steamy scene or two wherein Dean shows Cas exactly what it means to be venerated ;) Anyway, I probably should have known going Greek would get me into this mess, but yolo, I guess. Maybe I’ll come back and turn it into a long fic at some point, and do some actual research to supplement my meager knowledge of the ancient Greeks and make things make more sense. 
> 
> I don't *think* I got my Greek and Roman mythologies crossed at any point, but apologies if you're super into Ancient Greek culture and I messed stuff up. Hopefully, you still kind of liked it. 
> 
> I'm going to take a break next week and let my brain reset after all of this, but, provided things are still all right, I'll get back to it the week after, so sit tight. Thanks for reading! 


End file.
